


To Each Their Own

by mygiantoflannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sansa x Old Men Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mygiantoflannister/pseuds/mygiantoflannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets written for Sansa x Old Men Week on Tumblr and various other Tumblr prompts (each chapter is a stand alone piece).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting

Sometimes it seemed to Alayne that her life was less a life and more long stretches of waiting.  Waiting for something exciting to happen, waiting to reach King’s Landing, waiting for Joffrey to fall in love with her, waiting for Joffrey’s mercy until he took her father’s head, waiting for him to marry Margaery and leave her alone, waiting for Sweetrobin to die and waiting for news of Tyrion’s death so that she could marry Harrold Hardyng, and, now, waiting for some sign that she might finally be safe.

 _This last wait might last forever_ , she realized in the days after her cousin’s death. _I might never be well and truly safe.  Not even when I marry Harry._

When news of Tyrion’s death reached the Vale, Alayne was more confused than relieved.  “There’s no such thing as dragons,” she remembered telling Petyr, “The Targaryen girl must’ve burned him alive on a pyre.”

But Petyr just grinned Littlefinger’s grin and kissed her forehead.  “Forget the trivialities, my sweet girl, and be happy.  Now you can marry Harry.  You can stop hiding and be Sansa again.”

“Sansa,” the name tasted foreign on her tongue, “Yes, father, I will be Sansa.”

On her wedding day she donned her grey and white dress and cloak, then took Petyr’s arm as he walked her down the aisle to Harry.  _He is very comely, and rather clever, I suppose. I will bear him many strong sons and maybe we will be happy._

The Septon began the ceremony, and Sansa was filled with dread.  _I cannot do this.  I cannot do this but I must, I must.  Seven save me._

“Here in the sight of gods and men…I do solemnly proclaim Harrold of House Hardyng and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

“I’m cursed enough as it is—what’s one more?” a familiar voice said from the back of the sept. Sansa whipped her head around and saw a tall man clad in armor.  _Can it be?  Is it really him?_

“Guards!” Petyr screamed, “Remove this man!”

“Too late, Littlefucker, I’ve taken care of them already.  Little bird,” he said, walking down the aisle, “I lost you once, and I vowed to never make that mistake again.  Come with me, and no one will ever hurt you again.” 

“Oh, Sandor,” she gasped, picking up her skirts and running to him, “It _is_ you!”

And then she knew. The waiting was over. She was safe.


	2. Fascination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for day 2 of Sansa x Old Men Week (I left this ambiguous on purpose so it can be either SanSan or Sanrion, whichever you prefer!)

Her hair fascinated him. He loved everything about it—the way it shone bright like a penny when the sun fell upon it in just the right way, the way it brushed his face in a gentle caress when she kissed him, the softness of it when he played idly with it on a lazy Sunday morning.

Losing her was the worst mistake he’d ever made, he realized a week later when he was downing his fifth glass of whisky alone at a seedy bar.  When he finally found her again, her hair was no longer the rich red of a tree about to shed it’s leaves, but the dull brown of a pile of snow grown muddy with the coming of spring.

“You’re different,” he whispered to her one night as they lay tangled together in bed.

“No I’m not,” she insisted, “It’s just the hair.  I’m dying it back soon anyway.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, kissing her. And he didn’t. What was hair compared to true love? Her hair could be purple and he wouldn’t love her any less.  She was his soulmate—that in itself was fascinating enough.


	3. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a Sanrion ficlet

Neither of them had expected this.  When Tyrion first asked her out, it was strictly platonic: “My dad’s on my case, and I need to bring someone home so he’ll leave me the fuck alone.”  Sansa liked Tyrion well enough; he’d been a good mentor in her first few weeks of teaching, and he’d helped her out more than once when Joffrey wouldn’t leave her alone, so she accepted. _It’s just a date, and not even a real one._

Before she knew it, one day had turned into one year and one date had turned into dozens. The charade was beneficial for the both of them: Tyrion kept his father off his back and Sansa rarely had to cook for herself.  Beyond that, it was fun. None of her past boyfriends had been quite like Tyrion, in fact, Arya often teased her sister’s preference for “meatheads.”  The change suited Sansa, everyone said so.  Even her mother thought Sansa seemed happier and freer than she had since high school. She _was_ happy, and she _was_ free, and she hated disappointing people, and no one would ever love her for _her_ , so when Tyrion proposed to her (“Just a quick marriage, a year tops, and then we get divorced and everyone leaves us alone”), she gladly accepted. 

A year passed, and Tyrion started talking about having his lawyer draw up divorce papers. Sansa nodded in agreement—that was the plan, wasn’t it?—but couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was making a mistake.

“Alright,” he said at dinner the next week, placing a stack of paper on the table, “just sign here and then that’s it.  You’re a free woman.  It’s been a pleasure,” he continued, handing her a pen.

Sansa clicked and unclicked the pen several times before it hit her. “No,” she said suddenly, “No, I don’t want a divorce.  I love you, Tyrion, and I think you love me, too.”

“Sansa,” he said slowly, “You can’t keep this charade going for the rest of your life.”

“This is no charade!  I’ve been lost my whole life and now I feel like I’m finally found.  And do you know why, Tyrion?  It’s because of you.  Being with you is like coming home.”


	4. Trusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an ambiguous SanSan/Sanrion ficlet written for Day 4 of Sansa x Old Men Week

“But you’ll be with me,” she assured him and herself, “It’ll be fine.”

“Why do you trust me so much?” he asked.  “Last time I checked, I was kind of an asshole.”

“You know why,” she said, brushing his doubt aside, because really, why _did_ she trust him?  Or rather, why _wouldn’t_ she? Was it because he protected her, supported her, _respected_ her? Because he didn’t just want her for her last name?  Because he didn’t want and didn’t need her money?  Was it because when she was broken and lost and alone he was there to pick her up and bring her home and hold her until she started to feel whole again?  It was for all of these reasons, and none of them, and more reasons than she even knew she had.  “I trust you because you’ve never given me a reason not to.”

“Fair enough.”


	5. Pleased

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a SanSan ficlet

He’d always hated Harry. He was too much the frat boy, too much into Sansa for the long legs and the perfect ass and the way she looked hanging off his arm at cocktail parties than for what he, Sandor, loved her for. Harry didn’t notice the way her eyes shone bright blue like a cloudless sky on a warm spring day, didn’t give two shits about the way she got so excited about the smallest things, like having a “Girl’s Night” with her nieces or taking the perfect picture of the sunset or when Starbucks started selling Lemon Bar frappuccinos. Harry didn’t know that her favorite book was _The Bell Jar_ or that she’d failed geometry in the ninth grade.  Harry just knew Harry, and Harry knew that Sansa Stark would make the perfect trophy wife when he ran for Senator.  And Sansa, well, she thought Harry was different, special even. A good man.  That was another thing Harry didn’t know about Sansa: that despite the horrors she’d faced in her short life, she was filled with an infinite capacity for hope.  In Sansa’s mind, no one was all bad and everyone could be all good.  At first, Sandor had hated that about her. Now, however, he knew it was part of what made him love her.

“Harry proposed to me last night,” she told him over their usual morning coffee before work.

“Didn’t see that coming.”  Sarcastic. Slight chuckle. He took another sip of his coffee—black and bitter, like he used to be—and dug the nails of his free hand into his thigh under the table, bracing himself for the rest of the story.

“But I said no.  I’d rather be a nurse than a senator’s wife.  He took it pretty well, considering.”

“Plot twist.” Pleased.  Small smirk.  _Who knew Mondays could be this great?_

She looked at him, noticing the smirk.  “Do your worst.”

“He didn’t deserve you.”

“And who does?”

“No one is good enough for you, Sansa.”

“That’s funny, because I can think of someone who is.”

“And who’s that?”  _I swear to the gods if she says Tyrion I’ll kill the fucker myself._

“Well, he’s a good friend of mine, actually; I’ve known him since middle school. He’s a little harsh sometimes but it’s only because he doesn’t want anyone to suffer from the cruelty of the world. He loves motorcycles and German Shepherds and his favorite movie is _Pulp Fiction_. Oh, and he’s sitting across from me.”

He sighed in relief ( _not Tyrion_ ) before the weight of her words hit him.  _How is this possible?_  “So, what, do I have to take you out to dinner now or something?” _Keep it light.  Don’t act like a lovesick idiot._

“Don’t act so thrilled.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sansa, of course I’ll take you out to dinner. I can pick you up at eight tonight—does that work?”

“That’s perfect.”  _So are you._


	6. Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a Sanrion ficlet

A raven arrived in the morning; Queen Daenerys would be arriving at Winterfell by day’s end. Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat as she read the letter before tossing it aside and readying herself for the day ahead of her.

Her nerves were at a peak when guards spotted outriders carrying the Targaryen colors late in the afternoon.  It wasn’t Daenerys Sansa was worried about; the queen had been sympathetic to the Starks and was merely coming to Winterfell as a stop on her tour of Westeros. No, Sansa was not worried about the queen, but rather her Hand.  When news reached Winterfell that Daenerys Targaryen had returned to Westeros to claim her birthright with none other than Tyrion Lannister serving as her Hand, Sansa’s heart had skipped a beat.  _Tyrion.  My lord husband.  I’d thought him dead._ But it was not so.

The marriage had yet to be annulled, but Sansa was unsure whether the queen even knew it had occurred in the first place.  _The queen and I can discuss that later. Now, I must greet my guests as the gracious noblewoman my mother raised me to be._

Sansa was breathless by the time Daenerys and her party entered the main hall. There was Tyrion, quite the same as he’d been when she’d last seen him, but now sporting a thick beard. _He looks well._

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Stark.  Now, my company and I are exhausted from our long journey, so if you don’t mind, we would like to retire to our rooms for the evening,” Daenerys said after greeting her.

“Please,” Sansa said, “Get a good night’s rest.  We will have plenty of time to show you around tomorrow.”

When everyone had left the room only Tyrion remained.

“My lady,” he said, kneeling at her feet. “I’ve missed you.”

Sansa exhaled slowly, her eyes welling with tears.  “I don’t know how or why but so have I, Tyrion, I’ve missed you, too. I-I didn’t want you to be dead.”

“I’ve developed quite the knack for survival.  It’s one of my many talents.”

Sansa sank to the ground in front of him, her skirts pooling around her, and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, her breathing finally returning to normal.


	7. Trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a SanSan ficlet written for Day 7 of Sansa x Old Men Week: Fill Day. I also published this previously on AO3 under the title Eight Summers.

Summers were easy. In the summer, she lived in Kennebunkport, and it was not such a long way from there to Boston—on a good day, she could make the trip in under an hour and a half.  And in the fall, well, in the fall it would be harder, but Duke was only nine hours away.  Nine hours. Nine hours was good for a road trip, and surely there would be breaks and long weekends and times for him to come back to see her.  It would be hard, she knew that, but summers would be easy.

Their first summer, she was half a mermaid and half a city mouse.  Every other weekend, he would drive up to Kennebunkport and they would go to the beach (Maine summers weren’t the warmest, but they sure were the prettiest) and eat (lobster, lobster, lobster rolls, and the occasional clam) and kiss (lots of kissing, not that either of them minded).  On the other weekends, she would drive down to Boston and they would explore the city (the Red Sox weren’t terrible this season, and if that wasn’t a sign from the gods, she didn’t know what was—though a sign for what she wasn’t quite sure) and eat (baked beans and cream pies and the occasional lobster roll—this was still New England, after all) and kiss (lots of kissing, not that either of them minded).  During the weeks, Sandor worked and Sansa slept.  They were happy.  Summers were easy.

That fall, the Red Sox won the World Series and everything was going well.  Tufts wanted her to row for them (not everyone was first boat, captain of the crew team at a prestigious boarding school, after all). She managed to sneak away for a weekend during Christmas Break and he told her to go—no matter that she’d be in Boston all the times he wasn’t, no matter that Boston to Durham was an eleven hour drive on a good day.  None of that mattered, he told her.  He loved her and she loved him, he was hers and she was his, and besides, they had the summers. Summers were easy.

The next three summers were beautifully full but tantalizingly short.  The Red Sox were doing well, but they didn’t win (no one minded; they couldn’t be expected to win _every_ year—they weren’t the Yankees, after all).  The fifth summer, she and Margaery decided not to go home (Margaery was at BC, her dream school), and instead rented an apartment in Boston for the summer. He’d graduated from Duke, and with the whole summer stretched out before them (followed by the promise of seeing him more, now that college was over and he was back in Boston full time), they were the happiest they’d been since those golden days at Aegon’s (underappreciated and gone-too-soon, but golden all the same).  The Red Sox won that fall, and again she wondered if it was a sign.

She graduated the next spring, with flying colors and an acceptance to medical school at Stanford. He told her to go—his little bird was flying away, but that was to be expected, and who was he to stop her? That first summer after she started at Stanford was easy, but in the fall the Red Sox lost in the playoffs. A disheartening loss, of course, but the real trouble came when she didn’t come home the next summer, or the summer after that.  The Red Sox were back to their usual losing streak, and he wondered if it was a sign, if their happiness was determined by the fate of the Red Sox.

California is beautiful, you’d love it, come out here!  Were her constant chirps; the little bird had finally found the right place to make her nest. He wanted to go but felt trapped. The East Coast was all he knew. How could he leave? He couldn’t.

She came home for two weeks in August to visit her family and take Margaery back to California with her. She came down to Boston the day before her plane left to see him, and he knew this wasn’t going to be like their usual visits.

“I think,” she began, tears already gathering at the corners of her eyes, “I think that maybe it’s time we ended this.”

He was ready to agree, to go lightly, but why should he?  He _loved_ her goddammit, and he knew she loved him, and that was something he’d never dared to hope for.  “I understand, little bird, but I don’t agree. I _will_ fight for us.”

“Sandor…” her voice trailed off. She didn’t want this to end either, didn’t he know that?  She loved him, she loved him so much, more than she’d ever expected to.  They’d come a long way from the first day they met, back when she was Joffrey’s and she couldn’t even meet Sandor’s eyes. Was it worth it to throw the last eight years away?

“We can figure something out,” he pleaded.  He, Sandor Clegane, was pleading. A lot had changed in the past eight years.  “Maybe if you could just come home next summer.  Summers are easy.”

“No,” she said sadly, unable to meet his eyes, “Summers _were_ easy.”

The next day she and Margaery left for California, and she tried not to look back.  That fall, the Red Sox won the World Series. So much for fate.

 


	8. Come Home with Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A SanSan ficlet written for bornonthewrongside

It was all Margaery’s fault. After Sansa’s dry spell went on for longer than what Margaery deemed acceptable, she decided it was time to take matters into her own hands, dragging Sansa to bar after bar, night after night, watching miserably as her best friend failed to find someone—anyone. So Margaery had decided to try a different approach.

“It’s the twenty-first century, Sansa! If you want a guy you’re just gonna have to go out there and get him yourself!”

Sansa remembered being horrified. “You mean, like, make the first move?”

“Yes, I mean like make the first move! I mean come _on_ , San, what guy is gonna say no to _you_?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Which brought Sansa to tonight, at Craster’s, the latest bar on Margaery’s seemingly endless list.

“You need to buy someone a drink,” Margaery instructed.

“Fine,” Sansa said, scanning the room for potential guys.  _This isn’t too bad.  I can do this._   “What about him?”

Margaery looked down the bar to her left at the man Sansa was indicating.  He was big and burly, with thick dark hair, stubble, and the biggest arm muscles either girl had ever seen.  “Holy _shit_ , Sansa, he is _hot_!  And not your usual type, I approve!  Now buy him a drink and let him come to you.”

So she did, and the wait began. The bartender brought the drink over to the man, which Margaery took as her cue to leave.  “You got this, kiddo.”

Sansa tried to watch the man’s reaction as slyly as possible when she noticed the bartender incline his head towards her.  A rush of giddy anticipation filled Sansa’s chest as she saw the man look towards her, eyebrows raised in surprise, and make his way towards her.  She saw his face head-on for the first time and her heart skipped a beat—the entire left side of the man’s face was ravaged by angry burns and scars. _What the hell happened to him?_

“Not what you expected, huh, Red?” he growled.

“I-what?” Sansa was taken aback.

He gestured to his face. “This, the scars. Not what you were expecting, was it? Pretty little bird like you thought she was getting some dashing prince charming but she was wrong. I bet you’re wishing you never sent me that drink.”

“What the fuck? Do you really think I’m that shallow? You’re a complete stranger—I don’t give two shits about your scars!”  For once in her life, Sansa was very glad not to be sober—drunk Sansa had all the confidence.

Now the man was the one who looked taken aback.  “Fuck—I’m sorry. I’m just used to being on the defensive. I’m Sandor, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Sandor, I’m Sansa.”

“Are you gonna tell me why you bought me the drink?” he asked.

“Because I thought you were hot,” she answered nonchalantly, “Are you gonna tell me how you got those scars?”

His face darkened. “A story for another time, perhaps. Can I buy _you_ a drink?”

“Sure,” she smiled.

Three martinis later and she and Sandor were on the dance floor, her head nestled comfortably against his chest. Margaery had been giving her approving looks and thumbs up all night  _I could get used to this._

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“I’ve got a better idea: come home with me.”

His grey eyes met hers, full of surprise.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

So he did.


	9. Protection

“Tyrion, you don’t need to protect me,” Sansa said, rolling her eyes at her husband as he screamed insults at a group of men catcalling at her on the street.  _Husband_.  The word still felt foreign to her, even after all these years.

“I don’t like guys that think they can treat women like that.  Especially not my _wife_.”

_Wife. I like the sound of that._

“And besides,” he went on, “you, well, you used to be—”

“Timid?  In desperate need of protection?”

“Sort of.”

“A lot changed when I was away.”

“I know,” he sighed. The three years Sansa was away had been some of the worst in his life.  Sansa never spoke about where she’d gone, brushing off everyone’s questions with a dull story about doing charity work in Kenya.  Tyrion knew better, but he didn’t pressure her to talk about it. Everyone needs their secrets, and he was just glad to have her back, glad that she’d taken him back. “ And I don’t miss the…the _old_ Sansa, but I’m always going to want to protect you.  Can you live with that?”

She bent down and planted a kiss on the top of his head, grinning, because she had never, not once, not ever expected to find someone who understood her the way Tyrion did, someone that loved her as fully and as deeply as she loved him, someone that knew when to ask questions and when she needed space, someone that didn’t protect her because he _had_ to, but because he _wanted_ to. “Yes,” she said finally, “I can live with that.”


End file.
